


holy ground

by byesexualniall



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: F/M, M/M, at the fleetwood mac concert, just boys being stupid inspired by last night's happenings, lots of fleetwood content too, minor cameos from willie and deo and louis and liam and The Crew, only brief niall x ofc, or lack thereof
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-15 00:57:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19284817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/byesexualniall/pseuds/byesexualniall
Summary: hey. i’m a monster. and i’ve been listening toholy ground by taylor swifton repeat for a week. and i’m no longer a human, just a sack of narry angst. and when you open up the sack of narry angst, this comes out. apparently the year is 2014, and we still write lyric fics. hope you like! i do recommend listening to the song while you read!--context is important for this fic! the happened-in-real-life background story is that harry and niall were both at the same fleetwood mac concert in london last night, and stevie dedicated landslide to harry and his mom. they were both backstage but not seen together, and niall's been emo about how much he loves stevie on instagram all day. much to think about.





	holy ground

_I was reminiscing just the other day // while having coffee all alone and Lord, it took me away_

He tries not to think about Harry too often. It’s better if he doesn’t, he knows. It’s just so easy–too easy–too fall back into it. He’s done it too many times, now.

And he’s over it now, really. Over them now. It’s been years, and they’ve both dated other people, fallen in love again, had their hearts broken again, moved on, grown into different men than the kids they’d been when they loved each other.

But. Every so often. Every so often there’s a morning like this morning.

He’s just having his coffee. Having his coffee and reading through his email and icing his knee, Soccer Aid still stinging a tiny bit, when his bottom lip catches on the sharp chip in his mug. He swears, bringing his hand up to check for blood. There’s a tiny spot of it when he pulls his fingers away, and that’s when he realises.

It’s Harry’s mug. It’s Harry’s fucking mug.

He left it here, in 2014, when he didn’t have a house in London and started staying here. When he told everyone he was crashing in Niall’s guest room, but Niall woke up underneath him every morning. When he was warm and soft, the baby fat on his face thinning out every day. He hadn’t brought a lot with him when he unceremoniously moved in–just his clothes, his shoes, a few books, and his favorite mug, big and blue, with a wonky shaped cluster of stars painted on the front. Gemma had made it in a pottery class in grade school, given it to Harry for his birthday as a kid. It went everywhere with him. Until he left it here.

Niall never learned for sure where the chip came from, but he remembers taking the piss out of Harry for it, back then. Laughing at him, leaning up against the counter in his boxers and nothing else, telling Harry he’d hurt himself with that thing–pulling him into his arms and kissing the blood off his bottom lip when he, finally, did cut himself with it.

The memory sinks into his stomach, and Niall’s not hungry anymore.

_Darling, it was good // never looking down_

They had been perfect, the two of them. It had been perfect and untouchable, invincible, fated. The entire universe had conspired to make them happy, to bring Niall and Harry, Harry and Niall, together the way it had. And they took it for granted.

It was just so easy, on top of each other, on top of the world. Drunk, hand in hand atop Christ the Redeemer, seas and seas of people below them, all there for them. All as in love with the two of them as they were with each other. God, it was good. 

_And I guess we fell apart in the usual way // and the stories got dust on every page_

It wasn’t the suggestion of the hiatus that did it; Niall’d been expecting that. It wasn’t even going through the motions of the hiatus that did it; none of that felt real. It was New Year’s Eve that did it, when Niall asked Harry if he wanted to come over after the performance and Harry said no, sorry, I’m going to Jeff’s, didn’t I tell you?

And it wasn’t like Niall needed to have Harry at his side at all times–he was independent and proud of it. But Harry hadn’t told him. And they’d spent every New Year’s together since 2011. And when Niall said “okay, no problem, call me tomorrow?” Harry said, “I probably shouldn’t.” and that was that.

Niall had never imagined it would be that easy to fall apart.

He went away, to deal with it. Him and Basil and his cousins, fucked off to Asia and made their way back slowly but surely, sweating away the memory of Harry in the tropics, fucking away the ghost of him in Australia. It wasn’t easy, this time, but Niall knows how to compartmentalize, always has. He tucked Harry into the back corner of his heart, dark and warm, and moved on.

_But sometimes I wonder how you think about it now_

They both wrote breakup albums, is the thing. Niall laid his heart out, flayed and open and beating, for everyone. And everyone who knew, knew. Louis texted him after listening to it, said “fuck him, lad, wanna come over for a drink?” and Liam, too, the next day, “Hope you’re well, Nialler ! Love the new record ! We should get together soon , Cheryl has a mate who I’d love you to meet, I think you two would get on “

And there were mutual friends, too, who had their own ideas. Ed, who emailed Niall out of nowhere to ask if he’d heard Sweet Creature. Lou, who randomly texted him lyrics to From The Dining arable with no context and no follow up. Gemma, who only liked Niall’s tweets when they were explicitly referencing songs he’d written about Harry.

So Harry knows, Niall thinks, how he feels. How he looks at this. At them. But he can’t read Harry the way he used to, can’t compute his blank expressions and cryptic answers, feels like he’s lost that part of his brain, even though it used to be muscle memory.

He’s alone in the heartbreak. And it’s okay, most of the time, missing someone who you know isn’t missing you back.

But it would be nice to know.

_and I see your face in every crowd_

He thinks he’s imagining it initially. It wouldn’t be the first time.

But it makes sense, he realises with a jolt. Of course Harry’s here.

He’s at Wembley. Fleetwood Mac. Willie and Deo are on his left, a pretty girl is on his right. Her name is Nola, Nala, something—she works for Capitol, hooked them up with the passes tonight—it doesn’t matter right now. Because Stevie Nicks is singing, and Harry is looking at him.

Niall’s so used to flashes of Harry, to seeing his face in crowds he’s not in, that he doesn’t register it at first. But Harry lingers. And then the right corner of his lips tug up into a smile. And Niall feels the entire world spinning under him.

_Tonight I’m gonna dance for all that we’ve been through_

Stevie dedicates Landslide to Harry and Anne. Niall watches it happen from outside his body, detached, barely present enough to register the way Deo gently touches his shoulder, squeezing when it’s all over.

He’s happy for him.

He feels sick.

Deo leans over in the middle of the song and asks if Niall wants to leave. He shakes his head, says he could never do that to them, says he’s going to go use the bathroom and get another drink.

Nola follows behind, gets on her knees for him in the men’s room.

It’s fine, it’s good, he can still hear the concert over the sound of his own breathing, over the quiet noises she makes. He comes right as The Chain starts, slumping back against the stall. Nola doesn’t take the hand he reaches out to help her up off the floor.

_But I don’t wanna dance // if I’m not dancing with you_

Nola giggles as she comes on his fingers, and it’s kind of cute. Niall likes it, likes the way girls are soft and sweet and clingy when they finish, the way they blush when he presses a gentle kiss to their lips.

He can’t hear anything anymore over the post-orgasm rush in his ears, doesn’t realize that there’s someone else in the bathroom until he pushes open the stall door, Nola falling over him and giggling, his arm around her waist.

But there is someone else there, standing at the sink in a grey hoodie, washing his hands.

They make eye contact in the mirror. Harry’s more angular, now, than the last time Niall saw him. He’s growing out his hair again, has a tiny piece of it held back with a butterfly clip, has his Gucci purse perched next to him on the counter.

Niall stops dead in his tracks and Nola crashes face first into his broad back–oops, she giggles, lips brushing between his shoulder blades, arms sliding around his waist–and Harry nods a hello. Niall swings around, touches Nola’s face gently, says low between them, “why don’t you go get yourself a drink, love, and head back out to see your mates. Don’t want you to miss too much of the show.”

She gets the hint, is gone before Niall can look twice, the door swinging behind her.

Harry looks tired in the fluorescents. His hand comes up to his own mouth, ghosts over his bottom lip. 

“Hurt yourself?” He asks. No hello. It’s been years. 

Niall had forgotten about the cut, but his lips are probably swollen from the snogging. When he touches his mouth, it’s burning hot. 

“Drank out of a chipped mug this morning,” he says. He watches the recognition in Harry’s eyes, watches his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows thick.

“Should be careful. With things like that. You gonna wash your hands?” Harry asks. He’s still looking at Niall through the mirror.

“Does it matter to you either way?” Niall steps up to the sink anyway, turns the water on hot.

“Matters if you’re gonna go around touching shit. That’s disgusting, Niall.”

“Oh like you haven’t–”

“No,” Harry cuts him off. “I haven’t.”

“You’re missing out then, mate.”

“Am I?”

It’s the way he says it. Niall looks over, and Harry’s closer, too close. He’s so much taller now than the last time Niall had him like this.

“Why don’t you show me?” Harry asks, voice low, “What I’m missing out on?”

_And right there where we stood;_

Deo raises an eyebrow at him when he gets back to their seats, and Niall feels the back of his neck flush up. His cousin slaps him on the back, stronger this time, less afraid of hurting him, and Niall lets a laugh bubble up out of his chest.

“Fuck yeah,” says Willie.

Niall nods. Stevie is singing Go Your Own Way. “Fuck, yeah,” he echoes.

_It was holy ground._

_####_

**Author's Note:**

> thank you, as always, to the angels in my life for taking a look at this before i posted it! sarah, hazel, and my beloved harry styles hate club (looking @ u, meike, lillie, and natalie.) and, of course, thank you to you, for reading this. it means the whole wide world to me and i love you forever. i hope you liked this!! i have something muuuuuch longer coming very soon, and if you wanna talk narry or 1d you can find me on [tumblr](http://rainbownialls.tumblr.com/tagged/x)


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